


French for Beginners

by LaurelSilver



Series: Winter Wonderland [8]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Human AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 14:49:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5932222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurelSilver/pseuds/LaurelSilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[From the Winter Angst with a happy ending prompt] The character gets lost in a snowstorm but stumbles upon a pleasant place to hide from the weather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	French for Beginners

**Author's Note:**

> Francis 'France' Bonnefoi  
> Alistair 'Scotland' Kirkland [the homeowner]
> 
> Note; _italics_ signify it is said/written in French

Francis swears loudly, his tyres skidding on the icy road. Snow falls densely in every direction, a treacherous winter wasteland.

The car skids, Francis turning the wheel almost erratically as he tries to keep it under control, to no avail. Rubber slides on cruel ice, the heavy car sliding straight into the snow-filled ditch.

Air-bags blow up in Francis' face. The seatbelt tightens on his shoulder and collar, choking him. His foot slams into the gas pedal, the car revving uselessly, front wheels buried in thick snow, back wheels suspended in midair.

Francis takes a deep breath, pulling his foot off the pedal. The rev quietens to the hum of the engine, and Francis takes a deep breath as he pulls himself up, the seatbelt no longer strangling him.

He opens the door, unfastening the seatbelt and climbing out. The car sinks slowly as he stumbles over the open door. His clothes ripple in the wind, his hair tie stolen in the strong gust.

Francis slides off the door, feet sinking into the snow right up to his knees. He stomps through it, cold attacking every inch of his skin, breath like smoke as the wind whips it back into his face.

Snow has already begun to build up on the back of his car, and he forces it open. Francis pulls out a large, thick coat bunched up next to his suitcase. The suitcase he'll have to leave for now; he has no idea where he's going to go, and the last thing he wants is to be dragging a suitcase along with him.

Francis stomps his way along the road. There are tyre tracks, only one set, so clearly someone's been here. He can only hope he's heading in the same direction they were. Freezing to death on a backroad somewhere in North Scotland isn't exactly the way Francis wants to go.

The road winds through the woods, getting narrower and more treacherous. On some sharper corners, the tracks skid off the road and onto the mud banks, but the strange lumps in the snow around the corvers suggest that this is normal. Early roads weren't really designed to take cars.

Francis pulls the thick coat tighter around him. His feet are numb and heavy, his fingers too frozen to feel, his ears so cold they're painful. He pauses, and steps into the steadily filling rut left by whatever vehicle had been there before. While his feet are still cold and the flattened snow is slippery, it' still easier to deal with than crunching precariously through the built-up white.

Eventually, through the trees, an orange light flickers, and Francis almost whoops in relief. If he craned up his head, he'd be able to make out a thin, grey thread of smoke high above the trees, but the limited warmth of the coat is too much of a salvation for him to sacrifice.

Francis follows the road with more vigour, accidentally kicking snow into the ruts. He rounds the corner,the house coming into full view. It's a squat stone cabin, old and almost quaint under the snow. Replace the tyre tracks with animal tracks, and it would look like Francis had walked straight into a Christmas card.

The tyre tracks lead up to worn-out truck, mostly faded green with a red driver's door. A large plastic sheet covers the windscreen, held down under the closed doors, windowscreen wipers left stood up. Several inches of snow sit in the large space in the back, a dent in one corner where something must have been.

Francis steps up onto the front porch, icicles dripping above his head as he knocks firmly at the front door. Almost cutely, the door is wooden, with a metal bell hanging next to it without a chain to ring.

No answer. Francis knocks again, a little louder. Silence, and he knocks again.

Heavy footsteps pace to the door, hurried and aggressive. Francis steps back slightly, remaining under the porch, as the door is almost thrown open.

The homeowner is a hulking giant of a man with wild red hair and fiery green eyes, orange freckles glowing in his skin like a shower of hot sparks. He takes up the door with his broad stance and broad shoulders, glaring down at Francis.

"Aye?" he grunts.

"My car has broken," Francis explains in muddled English, "It is in snow."

"You're stuck? Or you drov' ov'er?"

"What?"

The homeowner narrows his eyes, leaning further out of his house. "Did ye go off t' ro'd?"

"What?" Francis can recognise the man's speaking English, but his thick accent deepening his vowels and harshening his consonants makes him hard to understand. " _Do you speak any French?_ "

The man shakes his head. "Do you," he points to Francis, "Want me," he points to himself, "To call," he holds a hand up to his head, pinky and thumb extended, "For a mechanic?" he mimes driving, then pauses, unsure how to portray 'mechanic'.

Francis nods. "Can I come inside?" he points into the house.

The man nods. "Tek' off yer shoes an' tha'," he says, gesturing to the shoes and coat.

Francis steps inside, almost groaning at the rush of heat. His cheeks flush red at the sudden temperature change. He pulls his shoes off, melted snow having soaked through his fashionable shoes and into his socks.

Looking around, the front door leads straight to an open living room and dining room. A fire roars, an armchair pulled up close to it. Francis heads over quickly, sitting down in the armchair with his hands reached towards the fire. Snow clinging to his hair melts, dripping down the back of his neck and making him shiver. The homeowner stands by a table tucked into the curve of a metal spiral staircase, an old-fashioned two piece phone bolted to the wall. He talks down it sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Opposite them, the wall is completely taken up with bookshelves, and the shelves are covered with not just books but puzzles, craft kits and miscellaneous wicker baskets of stuff, ranging from coloured pencils to scrap wool to disorganised tools. The place is fairly tidy: shoes by the door, coat on the hook, everything else on the overflowing bookshelves. A large dining table sits in front of it, covered in scraps of patterned fabric. A plastic box is shoved under the table, water soaked into the carpet around it - the box has been outside recently, and is probably what left the dent in the snow on the truck.

The homeowner slams the phone down with a noisy, sharp curse, and Francis jumps. The man looks over at Francis, and frowns. He heads into the next room, the kitchen judging by the stove visible through the open door, and reemerges with a wooden chair. He puts it by the fire, grabs Francis by the upper arms and moves him to the wooden chair.

He turns away again, heading to the bookshelves. He stands on his tip-toes to search the top shelves, picking out three books, and another from a bottom corner. He flicks through the three from the top shelf, looking for something, and writes something in the fourth book.

Francis watches him flick back and forth through pages, scrawling intently for several minutes, hissing and grunt occasionally. The homeowner tears the page he was writing on out, and writes again, copying from the first page. He tears the new page out, and heads back over, the four books in a stack under his arm.

The homeowner holds the page out to Francis, and Francis takes it, confused. The man's handwriting is all capitals, a note written in broken, mediocre French;

" _I am scared that the mechanic not drive in bad snow. He would not be outside until Wednesday._

" _I have a guest room, but my brother lives sometimes there, so his clothes and toys are inside there. I cannot live them somewhere different, but you are greetings to live here._

" _I am called Alistair Kirkland, and I am a caretaker for the park. I think you am lost, because the park does not often have guests at winter."_

Francis can't help smiling at the attempt. The books Alistair has brought over are now stacked at his feet; French for Beginners, Teach Yourself French and a French Dictionary. All three appear to be aimed at children, but Alistair doesn't seem to be embarrassed by the cartoon and bright colours.

"Francis Bonnefoi," Francis introduces, reaching a hand out to shake Alistair's, "I work for Mode, the fashion company. I tried to get to an airport."

Alistair nods, shaking Francis's hand. His grip is firm. "You've gone complete' the wrong way. No airports for 'uhrs away."

"I promise you will get paid for this," Francis says honestly.

Alistair pulls a face that Francis, despite his fine-tuned intrapersonal skills, cannot read. His hand drops, and Alistair picks up the French for Beginners book, curling up in his armchair to read.

**Author's Note:**

> Alistair's note is meant to read;  
> "I'm afraid the mechanic can't drive in the snow. He won't be out until Wednesday.  
> "I have a guest room, but my brother sometimes stays there, so some of his clothes and stuff are there. I can't keep them somewhere else, but you're welcome to stay there.  
> "I'm Alistair Kirkland, and I'm the park caretaker. I think you're lost, because the park doesn't usually have guests in winter."
> 
> Francis is a perilous driver. Think _A la Francaise_ by Wonderneepoos.  
>  Alistair flits through hobbies a lot. He can also be a bit of a hoarder, as he'll often return to a hobby. The bookshelves in his home are covered in stuff to keep himself occupied with, and some of it is hella old.


End file.
